More Than Anything (31 page)

When Terry finally leaves, I’m shell-shocked. There’s so much to think about my head’s spinning. I wonder for the hundredth time what I’ve gotten myself into, and then Sebastian pokes out of the control room and winks at me.

“If you’re all done with the powwow, I’ve got another take I want your opinion on.” He seems cheerful, but he’s all business, and it’s like we haven’t seen each other in weeks. I barely recognize the easygoing guy from the beach house, but I’m glad he’s on my side, and I gratefully follow him into the control room to listen to the tenth remix of the song he’s working on.

That night I talk to Derek for a half hour before he heads out for a late dinner. He’s still waiting to hear back from his manager about his schedule, but he’s dealing with all the same issues I am.

“Really? You’re going to open for Bruno Sears? That’s great!” he says.

“I know. Terry thinks it’s a great match.”

“I’ll say. Every show will sell out. There’s nobody hotter right now.”

“I know. I was really surprised I landed it.”

He hesitates. “I still don’t have anything firm booked, but they’re working on it.” He sounds a little down. It’s got to be hard to hear about everything that’s happening on my end while he’s struggling on his.

“Everything takes time. You’ll land something good. Your tunes are hits. In a few months this’ll all be behind you.”

“I hope so. It’s a nail biter.”

When I hang up I feel blah, as usual. Another night has passed with no firm date scheduled to see each other. I make a mental note to call Terry every day until I have my trip scheduled.

The meeting with the video producer goes fine, and he walks me through what to expect in a no-nonsense way that relieves me of any worry. He’s done hundreds in his career, so this isn’t his first rodeo. He’s also really funny, British, completely irreverent, and a blindingly fast thinker, you can tell.

The doctor gives me a clean bill of health but tells me not to overdo it, whatever that means. He wants me to keep wearing the wrist brace for another month, but okays me trashing the collar. I never thought going to the doctor could make me so happy. I feel like letting out a cheer when I leave the building, holding the collar in a plastic bag he gave me – he warned me to keep it in case I strain my neck and need to immobilize it for a few days.

Terry picks me up on Saturday morning at the apartment, and we head to the rehearsal studio, where one of her assistants is already waiting with the musicians. She introduces me to everyone, and they get underway. Two hours later I have my band: Jay, a guitar player from the Midwest who’s been in L.A. for three years and just came off a six-month tour with a household name; Bruce, a bass player who’s a complete pro in spite of only being twenty-four; Simon, a drummer from Ireland who’s been on the road for two years and is looking to switch acts; and Doug, a keyboardist with a Mohawk who can play sax, keys, trumpet, and flute, and sings like a nightingale.

We agree to a five-day-a-week rehearsal schedule, three hours per evening, once I’m done mixing and shooting videos the following week. As I’m planning, all I can think about is that every commitment takes me farther from my goal of being with Derek. But I’m not stupid, and I can see why Terry was warning me to prioritize getting ready for the tour. Even with professional backup like this band, it’s going to take a lot of hours to get to the point where we have an entire show down. I’m not worried about the music as much as I am the vibe of us working together, and I just hope everyone gets along well and enjoys the duty.

Monday brings the video shoot, and I’m standing in a dusty field at four a.m. somewhere east of Palm Desert while stylists and makeup people hover around me and the director sets up the first shot, which will feature the sun rising behind me. There are two huge fans that were brought out on a semi-rig, a sound system, synching gear, and another semi filled with camera gear and lights.

We finish for the day at nine that night, and I’m so beat by the end of it, all I can do is eat and go to sleep at the budget motel Terry booked for me. The following morning brings more of the same, and this time we’re not done until well past midnight, at which point I’m ready to drop. The director gives me a lift back to Los Angeles and keeps me entertained on the high-speed drive telling stories about acts he’s worked with.

“Yeah, so we were filming Sting’s bloody birthday party at his villa in Italy, and a two-day MTV thing turned into two weeks – 9-11 happened the day we were supposed to fly back to New York, so we got stranded in Tuscany until the flights started again.”

I was a toddler when he was filming Sting for MTV. It puts the seriousness of the people working on my behalf into perspective. When I get to the apartment, I manage to brush my teeth and then collapse face forward onto my bed, hoping that tomorrow I get some news on when I can make it to New York.

When I wake up, my phone’s buzzing at me from the night table, and I squint at it. 10 a.m. I could easily sleep another four hours. I eye the screen and see that I missed a call from Terry at 9:00 and one from Sebastian a few minutes ago. I debate turning it off and going back to bed, but can’t bring myself to do so. I call Terry first, and when she answers, her tone’s typically dry.

“About time you answered your phone,” she says.

“I didn’t get back from the shoot until 3:00.”

“I heard it went well. The director called me this morning at 8:00.”

“Yeah, I think it went okay.” I wait for her to tell me what’s so urgent.

“If you want to go to New York, book the trip any time after noon on Saturday. Just be back here by Wednesday at 5:00 for rehearsal.”

I manage a squeal of happiness. “I love you, Terry.”

“Save all that for your guy. Saul would go ballistic if he knew you were missing rehearsal, so don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“It’s only two rehearsals. Monday and Tuesday.”

“I know. But it’ll be our little secret. The band will still rehearse, only without you there, so it’s not a complete loss.”

“You’re awesome,” I say, and I mean it. Derek hasn’t been able to get clearance to take any time off, and I was beginning to lose hope.

“Right. But you owe me. Remember that.”

“I will.”

I hang up and call Derek, but he must already be in the studio because he doesn’t answer. I leave a voice mail message that I’ll be in New York on Saturday night, and will text him later with my flight info. The next call goes to Jeremy, who’s in a restaurant having lunch, judging by the background noise. I tell him I’m coming home, and he gives a little squeal.

“Look at you. Jet-setting around the world. Liza would be proud.”

“I can’t wait. These are going to be the longest five days in my life.”

“Have you checked flights?”

No. Of course not. I just assumed that there are a gazillion flights to New York every day. “That’s the first thing I’m doing when I hang up.”

“You go, wild thing. Have you talked to Mister Man yet?”

“Nope. He didn’t pick up.”

“Mmm. Well, book your ticket and then start celebrating. It’ll be good to have you back, even if it’s just for a little while. Seems like forever since I saw that pout of yours.”

“I won’t be pouting.”

“No, I suppose you won’t.”

We talk about the recording and his show, and I disconnect when I see Sebastian is calling again. I punch the line live, and he sounds annoyed.

“What time are you planning to make it in?”

“Sorry, Sebastian. I got in super late from the video shoot.”

“That’s fine. But I need to know when. I’m waiting on a final mix, and I want you to hear it before I clock it and wipe the board.”

He’ll mark all the levels with John, so if Saul doesn’t like something, he can redo it, but I can tell he’s not happy with the delay I’m causing. I sigh. “I can be there in…half an hour?”

“See you then,” he says, and I realize I’m not going to have time to book tickets, shower, eat, and get to the studio. I vow to sneak my phone in and call Terry back.

“I hate to ask you to do this, but could you have one of your people book me a ticket on Saturday afternoon, and then the first flight out on Wednesday? I don’t have a credit card. And Sebastian is bouncing off the walls because I’m not there yet,” I beg, using my best plaintive voice.

“Fine. You want to ante up for business class or fly economy?”

“Economy.” It’s on my dime, so my frugal instinct kicks in.

“Okay. I’ll text you the details.”

“Thanks, Terry. Now I owe you two.”

“Remember that the next time you think I’m being a bitch.”

I wolf down an English muffin and hose off while the coffee’s brewing. Five minutes later, I have a steaming cup in hand while I wait for a taxi. I make it to the studio in thirty-five minutes, which is a record considering everything I had to do, but Sebastian is in serious mode and scowls at me as I enter the control room.

“Check this out. If you’re good with the mix, this will be it for the acoustic numbers,” he says and nods at John, who presses play. Music fills the room, and I listen critically, ears straining for anything that might be out of balance. When the song’s over, I smile.

“It’s perfect,” I say, and he nods, as though I told him it was barely good enough for karaoke night.

“I tweaked the reverb to give it a smaller room vibe. More ambience in the vocal and guitar, so it feels like you’re sitting across from you, listening to you sing. And I pumped the vocal through the preamp to warm it even more.”

“Whatever you did, I wouldn’t change a thing,” I say, and Sebastian looks to John. “Did you print it?”

“Of course.”

“Run a backup, and then mark the levels, and we’ll set up the next one,” Sebastian says. I wonder at his stamina – he does four to six records a year, which is an insane pace, and must maintain this intensity every day. I’m starting to understand the kind of drive you have to have to make it in this business, much less stay on top once you’ve arrived. I’d have envisioned a name like Sebastian to be hanging out, taking it easy, picking and choosing projects in between tropical vacations or lounging on a super-yacht, but I’d have clearly been wrong.

I get some more coffee while Sebastian and John do their thing and sneak a look at my cell while I’m in the bathroom. Terry has me arriving in New York a little past 8:00 p.m. on Saturday, then out on Wednesday morning at 7:00, which will mean getting up at 4:00. I groan, but then remember why I’m going, and warm at the thought.

The day goes by slowly, most of the time spent analyzing this sound or that tone and seeing if it can be improved, and at nightfall Sebastian is still working to get the mix on the next song right. I’m confident when I arrive tomorrow morning he’ll have it dialed, and when I say goodnight, he’s more relaxed than earlier, my tardiness forgiven, if not forgotten.

Rehearsal goes well, and when we finish up at 9:30, I’m light-headed from fatigue. I grab some take-out Chinese food, and by the time I make it to the apartment, my limbs feel leaden. It’s all I can do to force down some kung pao chicken and text Derek my flights. Then I stagger to the bedroom, more tired than I’ve been in a long time.

I forget my phone in the living room, which turns out to be good, because otherwise it would wake me when it starts ringing at 4:40 in the morning. Instead, I sleep straight through and only notice the missed calls when I’m getting my morning coffee.

I check the messages and there are three. One from Derek’s phone, one from Jeremy’s, and one a few minutes ago while I was in the shower, from Melody. I opt for the most recent first and return her call. She sounds out of breath when she answers.

“Did you see the news?” she asks. No hello, no good morning. My stomach sinks. Nobody’s ever that excited over good news.

“No. What happened?”

“Check out the web. It’s Derek. He was arrested last night. It’s all over the gossip pages.”

I try not to choke as I get on the Internet with my tablet and go to the big music site that prides itself on exposés. There, while Melody waits on the line, I read all about it. Derek got into a fight in a nightclub and was taken into custody by NYPD at 2 a.m. The victim is pressing charges, and early accounts have Derek drunk and disorderly before going off on the guy.

“What do you think?” Melody asks.

“I don’t know what to think. It makes it sound like Derek went nuts.”

“Hasn’t he done that before?”

I think about him beating the pervert in the rest stop. “Not exactly.”

“He broke his hand the last time,” she says flatly.

“I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what happened then.”

“Well, it doesn’t look good. They don’t usually arrest the innocent party in a bar fight.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been in any. Have you?”

“Come on. You know what I mean.” I do. The other man’s pressing charges.

I mutter something about running late and get off the phone, my ears ringing. I’m actually dizzy, but I take some deep breaths and try to process this calmly. I’ve just made flight arrangements to fly to New York, and Derek’s gotten into another drunken brawl. How much worse can this get? There’s no information on whether he’s still being held or was released.